sayin' anything, until bimeby Bill he sort of made a sign for me to set
down. Did n't speak, did n't lift his eyes from the floor; only made a
sign, like this, in a weak, tremblin' way--that wuz all. An' I set
down, and there we both set, neither uv us sayin' a word, but both
settin' there, lovin' each other an' sympathize' as hard as we could,
for that is the way with men.
Bimeby, like we 'd kind uv made it up aforehand, we hitched up closer,
for when folks is in sorrer an' trouble they like to be closte
together. But not a word all the time, an' hitchin' closer an' closer
together, why, bimeby we set side by side. So we set a spell longer,
lovin' an' sympathizin', as men-folks do; thinkin' uv the old times, uv
our boyhood; thinkin' uv the happiness uv the past an' uv all the hopes
them two children had brought us! The tall clock ticked, an' that wuz
all the sound there wuz, excep' when Bill gin a sigh an' I gin a sigh,
too--to lighten the load, ye know.
Not a word come from either of us: 't wuz all we could do to set there,
lovin' each other an' sympathizin'!
All at oncet--for we could n't stand it no longer--all at oncet we
turnt our faces t' other way an' reached out, so, an' groped with our
hands, this way, till we found an' held each other fast in a clasp uv
tender meanin'.
Then--God forgive me if I done a wrong--then I wisht I wuz a woman!
For, bein' a woman, I could have riz up, an', standin' so, I could have
cried: "Come, Bill! come, let me hold you in these arms; come, let us
weep together, an' let this broken heart uv mine speak through these
tremblin' lips to that broken heart uv yourn, Bill, tellin' ye how much
I love ye an' sympathize with ye!"
But--no! I wuz _not_ a woman! I wuz a _man_! an', bein' a man, I must
let my heart break; I must hold my peace, an' I must make no sign.
THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS
An angel once asked the Father if he might leave heaven for a day and
go down to earth to visit the flowers and birds and little children,
for you must know that no other earthly things so much please the
angels of heaven as do the flowers, the birds, and the little children.
"Yes," said the Father, "you may go down to earth, but be sure to stay
no longer than a day; and when you come back to heaven bring me the
loveliest flower you can find, that I may transplant it to my garden
and love it for its beauty and its fragrance. Cherish it tenderly,
that no harm may befall it."
Then the angel went down to the earth, and he came to a beautiful
rose-bush upon which bloomed a rose lovelier and more fragrant than any
of her kind.
"Heyday, sweet rose," said the angel; "how proudly you hold up your
fair head for the winds to kiss."
"Ay, that I do," replied the rose, blushing, albeit she enjoyed the
flattery. "But I do not care for these idle zephyrs nor for the wanton
sunbeams that dance among my leaves all the day long. To-night a
cavalier will come hither and tear me from this awkward bush with all
its thorns, and kiss me with impassioned lips, and bear me to his lady,
who, too, will kiss me and wear me on her bosom, next her heart. That,
O angel, is the glory of the rose--to be a bearer of kisses from lover
to lover, and to hear the whispered vows of the cavalier and his lady,
to feel the beating of a gentle heart, and to wither on the white bosom
of a wooed maiden."
Then the angel came to a lily that arose fair and majestic from its
waxen leaves and bowed gracefully to each passing breeze.
"Why are you so pale and sad, dear lily?" asked the angel.
"My love is the north wind," said the lily, "and I look for him and
mourn because he does not come. And when he does come, and I would
smile under his caresses, he is cold and harsh and cruel to me, and I
wither and die for a season, and when I am wooed back to life again by
the smiles and tears of heaven, which are the sunlight and the dew, lo!
he is gone."
The angel smiled sadly to hear of the trusting, virgin fidelity of the
lily.
"Tell me," asked the lily, "will the north wind come to-day?"
"No," said the angel, "nor for many days yet, since it is early summer
now."
But the lonely lily did not believe the angel's words. Still looking
for her cruel lover, she held her pale face aloft and questioned each
zephyr that hurried by. And the angel went his way.
And the angel came next to a daisy that thrived in a meadow where the
cattle were grazing and the lambs were frisking.
"Nay, do not pluck me, sir," cried the daisy, merrily; "I would not
exchange my home in this smiling pasture for a place upon the princess'
bosom."
"You seem very blithesome, little daisy," quoth the angel.
"So I am, and why should I not be?" rejoined the daisy. "The dews
bathe me with their kisses, and the stars wink merrily at me all the
night through, and during the day the bees come and sing their songs to
me, and the little lambs frisk about me, and the big cattle caress me
gently with their rough tongues, and all seem to say 'Bloom on, little
daisy, for we love you.' So we frolic here on the meadow all the
time--the lambs, the bees, the cattle, the stars, and I--and we are
very, very happy."
Next the angel came to a camellia which was most beautiful to look
upon. But the camellia made no reply to the angel's salutation, for
the camellia, having no fragrance, is dumb--for flowers, you must know,
speak by means of their scented breath. The camellia, therefore, could
say no word to the angel, so the angel walked on in silent sadness.
"Look at me, good angel," cried the honeysuckle; "see how adventuresome
I am. At the top of this trellis dwells a ladybird, and in her cozy
nest are three daughters, the youngest of whom I go to woo. I carry
sweetmeats with me to tempt the pretty dear; do you think she will love
me?"
The angel laughed at the honeysuckle's quaint conceit, but made no
reply, for yonder he saw a purple aster he fain would question.
"Are you then so busy," asked the angel, "that you turn your head away
from every other thing and look always into the sky?"
"Do not interrupt me," murmured the purple aster. "I love the great
luminous sun, and whither he rolls in the blazing heavens I turn my
face in awe and veneration. I would be the bride of the sun, but he
only smiles down upon my devotion and beauty!"
So the angel wandered among the flowers all the day long and talked
with them. And toward evening he came to a little grave which was
freshly made.
"Do not tread upon us," said the violets. "Let us cluster here over
this sacred mound and sing our lullabies."
"To whom do you sing, little flowers?" asked the angel.
"We sing to the child that lies sleeping beneath us," replied the
violets. "All through the seasons, even under the snows of winter, we
nestle close to this mound and sing to the sleeping child. None but he
hears us, and his soul is lulled by our gentle music."
"But do you not often long for other occupation, for loftier service?"
inquired the angel.
"Nay," said the violets, "we are content, for we love to sing to the
little, sleeping child."
The angel was touched by the sweet humility of these modest flowers.
He wept, and his tears fell upon the grave, and the flowers drank up
the angel tears and sang more sweetly than before, but so softly that
only the sleeping child heard them.
And when the angel flew back to heaven, he cherished a violet in his
bosom.
THE CHILD'S LETTER
Everybody was afraid of the old governor because he was so cross and
surly. And one morning he was crosser and surlier than ever, because
he had been troubled for several days with a matter which he had
already decided, but which many people wished to have reversed. A man,
found guilty of a crime, had been imprisoned, and there were those who,
convinced of his penitence and knowing that his family needed his
support, earnestly sought his pardon. To all these solicitations the
old governor replied "no," and, having made up his mind, the old
governor had no patience with those who persisted in their
intercessions. So the old governor was in high dudgeon one morning,
and when he came to his office he said to his secretary: "Admit no one
to see me; I am weary of these constant and senseless importunities."
Now, the secretary had a discreet regard for the old governor's
feelings, and it was seldom that his presence of mind so far deserted
him as to admit of his suffering the old governor's wishes to be
disregarded. He bolted the door and sat himself down at his modest
desk and simulated intense enthusiasm in his work. His simulation was
more intense than usual, for never before had the secretary seen the
old governor in such a harsh mood.
"Has the mail come--where are the papers and the letters?" demanded the
old governor, in a gruff voice.
"Here they are, sir," said the secretary, as he put the bundle on the
old governor's table. "These are addressed to you privately; the
business letters are on my desk. Would you like to see them now?"
"No, not now," growled the old governor; "I will read the papers and my
private correspondence first."
But the old governor found cause for uneasiness in this employment.
The papers discussed the affair of the imprisoned man, and these
private letters came from certain of the old governor's friends, who,
strangely enough, exhibited an interest in the self-same prisoner's
affair. The old governor was highly disgusted.
"They should mind their own business," muttered the old governor. "The
papers are very officious, and these other people are simply
impertinent. My mind is made up--nothing shall change me!"
Then the old governor turned to his private secretary and bade him
bring the business letters, and presently the private secretary could
hear the old governor growling and fumbling over the pile of
correspondence. He knew why the old governor was so excited; many of
these letters were petitions from the people touching the affair of the
imprisoned man. Oh, how they angered the old governor!
"Humph!" said the old governor at last, "I 'm glad I 'm done with them.
There are no more, I suppose."
When the secretary made no reply the old governor was surprised. He
wheeled in his chair and searchingly regarded the secretary over his
spectacles. He saw that the secretary was strangely embarrassed.
"You have not shown me all," said the old governor, sternly. "What is
it you have kept back?"
Then the secretary said: "I had thought not to show it to you. It is
nothing but a little child's letter--I thought I should not bother you
with it."
The old governor was interested. A child's letter to _him_--what could
it be about? Such a thing had never happened to him before.
"A child's letter; let me see it," said the old governor, and, although
his voice was harsh, somewhat of a tender light came into his eyes.
"'T is nothing but a scrawl," explained the secretary, "and it comes
from the prisoner's child--Monckton's little girl--Monckton, the
forger, you know. Of course there's nothing to it--a mere scrawl; for
the child is only four years old. But the gentleman who sends it says
the child brought it to him and asked him to send it to the governor,
and then, perhaps, the governor would send her papa home."
The old governor took the letter, and he scanned it curiously. What a
wonderful letter it was, and who but a little child could have written
it! Such strange hieroglyphics and such crooked lines--oh! it was a
wonderful letter, as you can imagine.
But the old governor saw something more than the strange hieroglyphics
and crooked lines and rude pencillings. He could see in and between
the lines of the little child's letter a sweetness and a pathos he had
never seen before, and on the crumpled sheet he found a love like the
love his bereaved heart had vainly yearned for, oh! so many years.
He saw, or seemed to see, a little head bending over the crumpled page,
a dimpled hand toiling at its rude labor of love, and an earnest little
face smiling at the thought that this labor would not be in vain. And
how wearied the little hand grew and how sleepy the little head became,
but the loyal little heart throbbed on and on with patient joy, and
neither hand nor head rested till the task was done.
Sweet innocence of childhood! Who would molest thee--who bring thee
one shadow of sorrow? Who would not rather brave all dangers, endure
all fatigues, and bear all burdens to shield thee from the worldly ills
thou dream'st not of!
So thought the old governor, as he looked upon the crumpled page and
saw and heard the pleadings of the child's letter; for you must know
that from the crumpled page there stole a thousand gentle voices that
murmured in his ears so sweetly that his heart seemed full of tears.
And the old governor thought of his own little one--God rest her
innocent soul. And it seemed to him as if he could hear her dear baby
voice joining with this other's in trustful pleading.
The secretary was amazed when the old governor said to him: "Give me a
pardon blank." But what most amazed the secretary was the tremulous
tenderness in the old governor's voice and the mistiness behind the old
governor's spectacles as he folded the crumpled page reverently and put
it carefully in the breast pocket of his greatcoat.
"Humph," thought the secretary, "the old governor has a kinder heart
than any of us suspected."
Then, when the prisoner was pardoned and came from his cell, people
grasped him by the hand and said: "Our eloquence and perseverance saved
you. The old governor could not withstand the pressure we brought to
bear on him!"
But the secretary knew, and the old governor, too--God bless him for
his human heart! _They_ knew that it was the sacred influence of a
little child's letter that had done it all--that a dimpled baby hand
had opened those prison doors.
THE SINGER MOTHER
Once, as Death walked the earth in search of some fair flower upon
which he could breathe his icy breath, he met the graceful and pleasing
spirit who is called Ambition.
"Good morrow," quoth Death, "let us journey a time together. Both of
us are hale fellows; let us henceforth be travelling companions."
Now Ambition is one of the most easily cajoled persons in the world.
The soft words of Death flattered him. So Death and Ambition set out
together, hand in hand.
And having come into a great city, they were walking in a fine street
when they beheld at the window of a certain house a lady who was named
Griselda. She was sitting at the window, fondling in her lap her
child, a beautiful little infant that held out his dimpled arms to the
mother and prattled sweet little things which only a mother can
understand.
"What a beautiful lady," said Ambition, "and what a wonderful song she
is singing to the child."
"You may praise the mother as you will," said Death, "but it is the
child which engages my attention and absorbs my admiration. How I wish
the child were mine!"
But Ambition continued to regard Griselda with an eye of covetousness;
the song Griselda sang to her babe seemed to have exerted a wondrous
spell over the spirit.
"I know a way," suggested Death, "by which we can possess ourselves of
these two--you of the mother and I of the child."
Ambition's eyes sparkled. He longed for the beautiful mother.
"Tell me how I may win her," said he to Death, "and you shall have the
babe."
So Death and Ambition walked in the street and talked of Griselda and
her child.
Griselda was a famous singer. She sang in the theatre of the great
city, and people came from all parts of the world to hear her songs and
join in her praise. Such a voice had never before been heard, and
Griselda's fame was equalled only by the riches which her art had
brought her. In the height of her career the little babe came to make
her life all the sweeter, and Griselda was indeed very happy.
"Who is that at the door?" inquired Charlotte, the old nurse. "It must
be somebody of consequence, for he knocks with a certain confidence
only those in authority have."
"Go to the door and see," said Griselda.
So Charlotte went to the door, and lo, there was a messenger from the
king, and the messenger was accompanied by two persons attired in royal
robes.
These companions were Ambition and Death, but they were so splendidly
arrayed you never would have recognized them.
"Does the Lady Griselda abide here?" asked the messenger.
"She does," replied old Charlotte, courtesying very low, for the
brilliant attire of the strangers dazzled her.
"I have a message from the king," said the messenger.
Old Charlotte could hardly believe her ears. A message from the king!
Never before had such an honor befallen one in Griselda's station.
The message besought Griselda to appear in the theatre that night
before the king, who knew of her wondrous voice, but had never heard
it. And with the message came a royal gift of costly jewels, the like
of which Griselda had never set eyes upon.
"You cannot refuse," said Ambition in a seductive voice. "Such an
opportunity never before was accorded you and may never again be
offered. It is the king for whom you are to sing!"
Griselda hesitated and cast a lingering look at her babe.
"Have no fear for the child," said Death, "for I will care for him
while you are gone."
So, between the insinuating advice of Ambition and the fair promises of
Death, Griselda was persuaded, and the messenger bore back to the king
word that Griselda would sing for him that night.
But Ambition and Death remained as guests in Griselda's household.
The child grew restless as the day advanced. From the very moment that
Death had entered the house the little one had seemed very changed, but
Griselda was so busy listening to the flattering speeches of Ambition
that she did not notice the flush on her infant's cheeks and the
feverish rapidity of his breathing.
But Death sat grimly in a corner of the room and never took his eyes
from the crib where the little one lay.
"You shall so please the king with your beautiful face and voice," said
Ambition, "that he will confer wealth and title upon you. You will be
the most famous woman on earth; better than that, your fame shall live
always in history--it shall be eternal!"
And Griselda smiled, for the picture was most pleasing.
"The child's hands are hot," said old Charlotte, the nurse, "and there
seem to be strange tremors in his little body, and he groans as he
tosses from one side of his cradle to the other."
Griselda was momentarily alarmed, but Ambition only laughed.
"Nonsense," quoth Ambition, "'tis an old woman's fancy. This envious
old witch would have you disappoint the king--the king, who would load
you with riches and honors!"
So the day lengthened, and Griselda listened to the grateful flatteries
of Ambition. But Death sat all the time gazing steadfastly on the
little one in the cradle. The candles were brought, and Griselda
arrayed herself in her costliest robes.
"I must look my best," she said, "for this is to be the greatest
triumph of my life."
"You are very beautiful; you will captivate the king," said Ambition.
"The child is very ill," croaked old Charlotte, the nurse; "he does not
seem to be awake nor yet asleep, and there is a strange, hoarse
rattling in his breathing."
"For shame!" cried Ambition. "See how the glow of health mantles his
cheeks and how the fire of health burns in his eyes."
And Griselda believed the words of Ambition. She did not stoop to kiss
her little one. She called his name and threw him a kiss, and hastened
to her carriage in the street below. The child heard the mother's
voice, raised his head, and stretched forth his hands to Griselda, but
she was gone and Ambition had gone with her. But Death remained with
Griselda's little one.
The theatre was more brilliant that night than ever before. It had
been noised about that Griselda would sing for the king, and lords and
ladies in their most imposing raiment filled the great edifice to
overflowing, while in the royal box sat the king himself, with the
queen and the princes and the princesses.
"It will be a great triumph," said Ambition to Griselda, and Griselda
knew that she had never looked half so beautiful nor felt half so ready
for the great task she had to perform. There was mighty cheering when
she swept before the vast throng, and the king smiled and bowed when he
saw that Griselda wore about her neck the costly jewels he had sent
her. But if the applause was mighty when she appeared, what was it
when she finished her marvellous song and bowed herself from the stage!
Thrice was she compelled to repeat the song, and a score of times was
she recalled to receive the homage of the delighted throng. Bouquets
of beautiful flowers were heaped about her feet, and with his own hand
from his box the king threw to her a jewelled necklace far costlier
than his previous gift.
As Griselda hurried from her dressing-room to her carriage she
marvelled that Ambition had suddenly and mysteriously quitted her
presence. In his place stood the figure of a woman, all in black, and
with large, sad eyes and pale face.
"Who are you?" asked Griselda.
"I am the Spirit of Eternal Sorrow," said the woman.
And the strange, sad woman went with Griselda into the carriage and to
Griselda's home.
Old Charlotte, the nurse, met them at the door. She was very white and
she trembled as if with fear.
Then Griselda seemed to awaken from a dream.
"My child?" she asked, excitedly.
"He is gone," replied old Charlotte, the nurse.
Griselda flew to the chamber where she had left him. There stood the
little cradle where he had lain, but the cradle was empty.
"Who has taken him away?" cried Griselda, sinking upon her knees and
stretching her hands in agony to heaven.
"Death took him away but an hour ago," said old Charlotte, the nurse.
Then Griselda thought of his fevered face and his pitiful little moans
and sighs; of the guileful flatteries of Ambition that had deafened her
mother ears to the pleadings of her sick babe; of the brilliant theatre
and the applause of royalty and of the last moments of her lonely,
dying child.
And Griselda arose and tore the jewels from her breast and threw them
far from her and cried: "O God, it is my punishment! I am alone."
"Nay, not so, O mother," said a solemn voice; "I am with thee and will
abide with thee forever."
Griselda turned and looked upon the tall, gloomy figure that approached
her with these words.
It was the Spirit of Eternal Sorrow.
THE TWO WIVES
In a certain city there were two wives
named Gerda and Hulda. Although
their homes adjoined, these wives were in
very different social stations, for Gerda was
the wife of a very proud and very rich man,
while Hulda was the wife of a humble
artisan. Gerda's house was lofty and
spacious and was adorned with most costly and
most beautiful things, but Hulda's house
was a scantily furnished little cottage. The
difference in their social stations did not,
however, prevent Gerda and Hulda from
being very friendly in a proper fashion, and the
two frequently exchanged visits while their
husbands were away from home.
One day Hulda was at Gerda's house, and
Gerda said: "I must show you the painting
we have just received from Paris. It is
the most beautiful painting in the world, and
it cost a princely sum of money."
And Gerda took Hulda into an adjoining
chamber and uncovered the picture, and for
a long time Hulda stood admiring it in
silence. It was indeed a masterpiece of art.
Such beauty of conception, such elegance of
design, and such nicety in execution had
never before been seen. It was a marvel of
figure and color and effect.
"Is it not the most beautiful picture in
all the world?" asked Gerda.
"It is very beautiful," replied Hulda, "but
it is not the most beautiful picture in all the
world."
Then Gerda took Hulda into another
chamber and showed her a jewelled music-box
which the most cunning artisans in all
Switzerland had labored for years to produce.
"You shall hear it make music," said Gerda.
And Gerda touched the spring, and the
music-box discoursed a harmony such as
Hulda's listening ears had never heard
before. It seemed as if a mountain brook, a
summer zephyr, and a wild-wood bird were
in the box vying with each other in sweet melodies.
"Is it not the most beautiful music in all
the world?" asked Gerda.
"It is very beautiful," replied Hulda, "but
it is not the most beautiful music in all the world."
Then Gerda was sorely vexed.
"You said that of the picture," said Gerda,
"and you say it of the music. Now tell
me, Hulda, where is there to be found a
more beautiful picture, and where more
beautiful music?"
"Come with me, Gerda," said Hulda.
And Hulda led Gerda from the stately
mansion into her own humble little cottage.
"See there upon the wall near the door?"
said Hulda.
"I see nothing but stains and marks of
dirt," said Gerda. "Where is the picture
of which you spoke?"